


The Gallery

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abduction, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Dark, Graphic Description, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter said he would always catch him if he ran, but then the last time, he didn't, and that creates a serious problem for Neal. Set after season 5 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, El, how are you?” he asked, plopping down on the couch.

“I’m  . . . okay,” Elizabeth responded.

Peter put down his bottle of beer and muted the television. An uncomfortable feeling crept into his stomach. “El, what is it?” Had she had enough of him? Were the weekend commutes from D.C. to New York too much? Had she met someone else while working at the National Museum of Art?

“I . . . I think I saw Neal today.”

“What are you talking about? Neal is gone. He ran, remember? He can go anywhere in the world. No offense, El, but I don’t think D.C. is on his list.”

Peter didn’t even try and look for Neal this time, which to be honest, felt strange. Every time his CI ran, he always caught him, but this time, the way Bruce wanted to extend the leash on him, it left such a sour taste in his mouth that he wanted Neal to not be found. And with Peter being the only one to ever successfully track down the infamous conman, the FBI gave up on locating his whereabouts six months ago. It would be Interpol’s problem now, they assumed.

She sighed. “I know it sounds nuts but, Peter, I know what I saw.”

Now it was his turn to sigh. “Okay, tell me.”

“It was this morning, at the gallery.”

“And what? He was just walking around?” She didn’t respond. “El, what is it? What are you not telling me?”

“I think Neal is under someone’s control.”

He reached for the remote and shut the television off. He was sitting fully upright now. He never pitted his wife to be wrong, and so that uncomfortable feeling crept back into his stomach. “What are you talking about?”

“He was standing in front of a painting, a Matisse, and there was a man next to him. I called out his name but this man grabbed Neal’s arm and kind of dragged him out of the gallery.”

“And you’re positive it was Neal?”

“Well, I only saw him from a far, but I looked at the security footage after and I’m 90% certain it was him. Jesus, Peter . . . he really looked awful.”

“Dammit,” he muttered as he made his way up the stairs. “I’m getting a bag together right now. I’ll take the first train out.”

*****

Peter re-watched the security footage for a fifth time, even though he knew it was Neal by the first. Yes, the image was a tad grainy, and the shots weren’t perfect, but he knew by the way this man stood, which foot he put his weight on, and which hand he put in his pocket when he was uncomfortable to know it was him.  

He agreed with his wife’s assessment that Neal was under someone’s control. The man standing next to him, who was much larger in height and weight, kept close to Neal the entire time they were in the gallery. But it wasn’t just that, it was the way Neal stood, not tall and strong, but hunched over and strained—as if he were trying to shrink into the walls or the marble floor beneath his feet. And when this man put his arm around Neal’s thin one, and roughly jerked him towards the door, the pit in Peter’s stomach grew deeper.

“So what now?” Elizabeth asked.

Peter hit the pause button and shook his head. “God, El, I’m so stupid.”

“What?”

“I thought he ran. But after looking at this . . . all those months I could have  . . . instead he was with this man making him do god knows what.”

“Peter, look, is that him?” Elizabeth squawked, pointing at one of the screens. Peter took another step closer to the television and squinted. Yes, it was. Neal was here at the gallery. “That man . . . he’s here too.”

Peter’s heart was racing as he made his way to the gallery floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter reminded himself not to walk too slowly. _Just go at a normal pace_. He couldn’t see Neal’s face, only his back, and when he saw the man next to him whisper something in his ear and walk away, Peter knew this was his chance. “Jim, is that you?” he asked as he touched Neal’s shoulder.

Neal didn’t turn around upon the touch, but Peter felt his entire body go rigid. He also seemed to stop breathing. Peter removed his hand and slowly, Neal turned around. Peter watched with great scrutiny as he did everything he could to keep his eyes to the floor. Finally, those crystal blues lazily fluttered upward and zoomed into his brown ones.

“Jesus,” Peter whispered. His eyes were lifeless and drawn out—like he was on a heavy dose of valium. His skin had an unhealthy yellow tint to it. His jeans were extremely ill fitted, as was his shirt and black jacket. Even that baseball cap on his head seemed too big.

“Go away,” Neal said softly under his breath.

“Jim, how long has it been since I’ve seen you?” Peter forced out, taking note of the ragged breathes escaping from the man in front of him.

“Pleeeaase, g‘way,” Neal slurred, this time there were tears building in his eyes.

Peter would have stopped the act right then and there, but he saw the heavy-set man coming towards them.  “I’m going to get you out of this, Neal,” Peter whispered. “So sorry I bothered you, you looked like someone I used to work with, my mistake,” he said loudly. The heavy-set man threw him a fake smile and grabbed Neal’s arm. And that was it, they were gone.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” El asked after her husband returned to the security office.

“It sure as hell was,” Peter said, taking out his cell phone. “Neal is in serious trouble.”

**********

He called in some favors to the office in DC and in one hour he had a team reviewing the security footage. They ran the man’s face through the database. Peter had to read the memo three times to make sure the words on there were real. This . . . man . . . this monster . . . Keith Wells had been in and out of prison is whole adult life. Battery, passing around bad checks . . . sexual assault.

His team kept constant surveillance on the gallery, waiting for him and Neal to return. They waited a day, then two, and then it was a week. Nothing.

By the second week, Peter had become frustrated. Neal was at his fingertips and he did nothing. Now who knows where he was. Peter also couldn’t get the image of his friend out of his jumbled mind. He was so thin and there were bruises peeking out from underneath his collar. And his eyes. He was so heavily drugged he didn’t even know where he was.

Three days later, Peter’s heart lodged in his throat. Keith Wells had entered the gallery early that morning, but there was no Neal in sight. He told his team to hold back. They watched Wells circle the floor seven times, each time stopping at the Matlese. When he made his ways towards the door, again Peter told his team to hold back. He needed to know where Neal was before they took him down. So they followed him two cars behind his white van for two hours. 

When they saw him pull into a dirt road, Peter knew this is where Neal was.

At least ten agents swarmed the house. When Peter entered, he snickered at the smell. Garbage littered the floor, rats infested the walls. When he made his way to the basement, down the hall and to the room with the padlock on it, he knew.

It was cold in there, and only the distinct sound of a leaky pipe could be heard. It was dark, eerie, and downright scary. He put his flashlight on and raised it high. He was curled on his side, his face to the wall. He had his arm wrapped around his stomach. Blood was on the back of his ripped shirt. He knelt down, afraid to touch him, afraid he was dead.

“Neal?” Peter said, placing his hand on his shoulder. He got no response, but he felt the younger man shivering.

Peter gently guided him onto his back. His neck was covered in bruises, the kind that fit the mold of big hands. His left eye was swollen, dried blood caked around his nose and mouth, and he had a nasty cut on his forehead.

“Neal,” he said. This time his voice cracked.

Neal kept his eyes shut and pushed his body back towards the wall. He pulled his knees to his chest. “Go ‘way,” he whispered.

Peter placed his hand on Neal’s shoulder. “I’m getting you out of here, okay?”

He felt Neal take a deep inhale, his body shaking more than ever, and then he yelled with all the little might left in him. “Go ‘way, please!”

“Neal—”

“I’m sick,” he sniffled.

Peter cringed, noticing now how ragged his breathing was. He was indeed sick; left alone in this dampened, cold room for who knew how long, how could he not be. “I know,” he forced out as he took his jacket off and placed it over the shivering form in front of him. He was careful to not touch the arm Neal was delicately cradling. He then placed his hand on Neal’s head, whether it was water, blood or sweat he was touching he could not tell and his anger intensified even more.

“Please, not now. I really am sick,” Neal whispered, trying to move his head away from Peter’s touch.

Peter was now the one who shivered. He did not know exactly what Neal meant, but he knew it wasn’t pleasant. He also knew he was more sick and more injured than he could tell because he had no idea who he was or that _this_ was over. Peter moved his hand away. “Neal, the paramedics are here. We are going to move you, away from all this, okay? It’s time to go.”

As soon as one of paramedics put their hands on him, Neal started groaning. “Please, don’t,” he kept saying. He tried to move onto his side again, tried to push the hands on him away, but Peter could see he was so doped up that every movement was excruciatingly uneventful. And Peter realized that this was the uneven fight Neal had been plagued with.

“No, please! I’m not ready,” Neal whimpered as he was rolled him onto the headboard. The loud, gut lurching sobs continued as they moved him up the stairs, like that was his only form of fight, and unfortunately it was.

“It’s okay, it’s over,” Peter said softly as the doors to the ambulance closed. But he knew it wasn’t. He saw under the harsh fluorescent lights that it wouldn’t be okay or over for a long time.

Neal looked at him straight in the eye, but Peter knew with great certainty that he was in a different world. He didn’t understand that he was saved. “I know you said when you were done with me that you were going to kill me . . . but please . . . please leave my body somewhere whey they’ll find it. I beg you.”

Peter couldn’t wipe his own tears away fast enough. He placed his hand gently over Neal’s, unable to find words.

“Please . . .” Neal whispered as tears fell down his dirt-filled face.  “I don’t want him to think I ran.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is somewhat sexually explicit!

Keith Well’s hands roamed. Up, down, up, across, down. Neal shivered at his touch and bit his lip to refocus his brain to the pain he was giving himself instead of the former. It didn’t work. The hands kept roaming and he kept feeling them. How could this man still possibly find him attractive, he wondered. His skin was dry now—like century old newspaper, and barely any skin stretched over his rib cage. There would bumps and lumps, contusions over old contusions, as if his own skin were trying to hide the horror from itself.

“You’re still such a pretty little thing,” Keith whispered into his ear. Neal lay flat on the bed and turned his head so he could look at the wall. He always looked at the wall. Keith rummaged his fingers through Neal’s hair and that’s when the tears started to run. Keith always did these two things before he began the rape; told him he was still pretty and ran through his hair.

“I’ll take you back to the museum tomorrow; one more look at the Matisse and you should be able to replicate it. Don’t you think, Neal?”His hand roamed over his stomach, then his hips, then further down. He always tried to arouse Neal. A few gentle pulls, one to three harsh tugs, and then he gave up because he certainly did not want to waste too much time on an exercise in futility.

“Doesn’t this feel so nice, Neal?” Keith would always ask at the beginning. The first few thrusts were slow, soft, even gentle. And then that deranged look would seep into his eyes. Neal supposed it was a reaction to his tears, his whispered pleas to stop. Then those hands would roam again, usually towards his neck. And Keith would command he stop crying and instead to enjoy it. He never obeyed.

It hurt.

It was more hurt than he could have ever imagined, and every night he endured this and every night after he explored a new kind of pain that he had never felt before. Neal tried to always remove himself mentally from the situation, but he was always brought back to the present by the rhythm. He knew just where Keith was by the harshness and intensity of each thrust. The only relief Neal ever felt during each encounter was when his captor and rapist—all rolled into one—went into jack-rabbit mode. Fast, fast, fast, faster. And Neal always knew he was bleeding at this stage because it was warm and sticky down there, and Keith would have never dared to use lube.

But Keith was close to finishing and two more seconds and two more thrusts later, he always was.

And then Neal was left alone. Naked. Stained with tears, blood, always semen that wasn’t his, and old and new bruises.

But hey, at least he was given a bed.  

One time he fought back. No it was not during the first rape, or the second or even the third. It was sometime during his fourth month of captivity. That’s when he realized he was never going to be found, and so he decided to lash out and in return, he **demanded** that he be punished so badly that death was the only acceptable form of repercussion.

He let Keith undress him, just like always, let him pet his body and stroke his hair, and right before Keith was to penetrate him he went for it. Neal closed his battered, stained with paint fingers and curled them into an almighty fist. He clocked the fucker straight in the jaw with every last pathetic ounce of energy he did not have. BOOM! Keith’s blood splattered in a fantastic way; and Neal had never seen anything so gruesomely beautiful. He fell on his side next to him. His overweight body next to his underweight one. Neal sat up, folded his arm to his chest and plunged his extremely bony elbow into the bastard’s gut. A wrenching scream escaped Keith’s lips, but to Neal it was like hearing Beethoven’s No. 7 for the first time.  

The drugs intravenously injected into him throughout the day still coated his veins, and weighed his lithe body down like cement, but the adrenaline spiked through it all and he pushed himself off the bed. Keith was furious now, screaming _’fuck’_ and _‘you little shit’_ and _‘wait till I’m through with you’_. But Neal, naked and drugged, touched the doorknob of this forsaken room and swung it open.

He breathed the hallway air, something he had done so few times, and in all his glory stepped onto the cold wooden floor. He laughed, in an ill fitting way, before taking off. He thought he made it to the front door, in fact, he was deathly sure he did, but boy those drugs were more potent than he ever really knew, because he really had only made it three feet.

That’s when Keith’s roaming hands made their next infamous appearance.

Neal was surprised, not because he had been caught, but because he never dreamed he would have made it this far. He was not thrown to the ground, no, that would have been in poor taste. Instead he was pushed against the old wall. One of Keith’s hands was around his arm, the other around his neck. Blood seeped down Keith’s mouth, the deranged look conjured from deep within, and he smiled.

And so Keith dragged Neal back towards the bedroom, laid him down on the bed which for once had blood on it that was not his, and injected him with a double dose of drugs. Keith placed his hand back around Neal’s neck, almost to the point that he could not breathe and waited for the drugs to take effect. After only a minute they did. They really, really did. Neal’s heart was racing very fast but he could not move any of his limbs; he was sure he didn’t even feel his eyes blink, though he did feel the wetness leaking from them.

“A little feisty tonight, eh, Neal?” Neal simply stared, not afraid at all. Again he never expected to get this far. “Well why didn’t you just say so? I can be feisty too,” he said, twisting the cap off a bottle clearly labeled ‘Viagra’.

And six hours later, when the feeling of his extremities started to come back, when he could finally wipe away the blood from his nose and mouth, when he could touch the dried blood painted on his thighs, when he could pick the crusted ejaculation off his stomach, he knew he would never dream of trying to escape again.

Because he knew with great certainty that Keith Wells was going to dispose of him his way or not at all.


	4. Chapter 4

“Jesus Christ. Neal, wake up. Wake up!” Peter screamed. Neal’s hospital gown was soaked in his sweat. Pools of it wet the pillow and sheets. Tears streamed down his face rapidly and his whole face was contorted in pain. Peter turned to the doctor standing on the left side of the bed. “Why won’t he wake up?”

“The sleeping aid we gave him was strong,” he said, grabbing Neal’s wrist to check the IV. But as soon as his hands were placed on him, that’s when Neal started talking. “I don’t want you to do it. Not tonight. I can’t take anymore,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“Mr. Caffrey. Mr. Caffrey, can you hear me?” the doctor said. “Mr. Caffrey, you are in the hospital.”

“It still hurts. Just let me rest tonight. I’ll be better tomorrow. I just need one night, please.”

“Oh my god,” Peter whispered. 

The doctor grabbed his pen flashlight, placed his hand firmly on Neal’s head, and reached for his eye. With a sweeping pass of the light, both of Neal’s eyes shot open and his heart monitor started beeping out of control. His eyes were wide, manic and deranged—something Peter had never seen. Neal shot his hand up, hitting the doctor in the nose. The M.D. fell back slightly and blood dripped slowly down his chin. “Mr. Caffrey, it’s alright—”

“No!” Neal screamed trying to sit up. He saw the IV in his arm and ripped it out with such force that blood splattered on the blanket and floor. He pushed the blanket off him and looked ready to run.

Peter placed his both his hands on Neal’s arms. “Neal, it’s Peter. No one is here to hurt you, I promise.”

The doctor reached for the side of the bed and piked up the intercom, “We need two orderlies in room 505. Now.”

Neal pushed against Peter, and since Peter was not using a lot of strength he managed to sit up again. “Neal, listen to me, you are in the hospital—”

“I just can’t tonight. I’m not lying. I think you will really hurt me if you fuck me right now,” Neal pleaded.

Peter closed his eyes and bit his lip. He tasted the blood, but he did not feel the pain. “I am m not him, Neal. I am not him.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. But Peter knew by the franticness of his voice that he did not know or understand. He thought Peter was _that_ man. And he thought that by ‘agreeing’ with his captor, that his captor would release him for the night. Is this what Neal had to endure? He had no doubt it was, because Neal’s signature charm was trying desperately to seep through—in his voice, in his eyes, in his touch. However, the way his voice and hands shook, the way his tears ran so steadily, he knew Neal never conned Keith Wells into giving him the ‘night off’.

Peter could see Neal catching his breath, just a bit. He loosed his grip a touch and was relieved when he did not try and lunge from the bed again. But his eyes were still wide and wild with uncertainty. He was still absolutely petrified. Peter saw the blood seeping from his arm, running down like a leaky faucet. Bright red, drying watercolors it looked like. “You have to calm down, Neal, okay? No one is going to hurt you.”

And for some reason he would never know and never try to understand, this set him off again—and he was even more round up than before. He thrashed his arm every way possible and even pushed his palms against Peter’s chest. Peter placed his knee on the mattress and his arms on Neal’s shoulder. He pushed down as gently as possible, not caring the red watercolor was staining his brand new shirt. He looked down at his friend, his beaten, starved, broken friend and despite the never ending supply of tears against his gaunt cheeks, he knew he could not release his weight until he calmed down.

Then the sobs came, probably like clockwork in the sick game Neal was forced to play. They were loud and long, gruesome and horrifically sad. Peter would have literally given his left arm if he knew with certainty that Neal would never cry like _that_ again. “You think I like this, don’t you?” Neal asked finally out of breathe.

“Like what?” Peter asked not wanting an answer.

“This! Me struggling against you. I don’t like it, I never did, I never will.”

And that’s when Peter’s own tears started to form. And they hit the top of Neal’s head, perhaps they rolled and mixed in with his but he would never know. Neal made another attempt to move and Peter felt the weaker man’s hands against his chest, trying desperately as well as failing desperately to push him away. Peter lowered his body so his face was close to Neal’s, his weight never lightening. And despite this, despite what Neal was sure was about to happen –and why shouldn’t he—Peter said it again, for perhaps this last attempt would break through the impenetrable veil guarding his reality, “Neal, you have to snap out of it, okay? I’m not him, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Neal looked him in the eye, and yes those tears were still there. Old mixed with new, lying on top of bruises, old and new. “Please, it hurts too much. If you love me like you said you do then don’t fuck me tonight."


	5. Chapter 5

“If you ever give him a sleeping aid again, I will have your medical license stripped from you. You will never ‘practice’ medicine again.”

Dr Jeen looked at Peter Burke with a straight stare. He was no stranger to friends and family members acting out on behalf of their loved ones. Not many people understood that practicing medicine was an art, and not just with one’s hands, but with words as well. “He had been through trauma, Agent Burke. It is not uncommon for victims to behave like that, with or without a sleeping aid.”

Peter remained calm, in fact, he became even calmer and that’s when trouble landed. He stepped towards Dr. Jeen. Then he took another step. And then he had the doctor backed up against the wall without as so much placing a finger on him. He leaned in close, nose to nose and he felt great satisfaction when the medicine man quivered. “Do you understand what I just said to you?”

Dr. Jeen opened his mouth, but nothing but silence came.

“A nod or a shake will do. A verbal ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is pushing it, but I’ll take it,” Peter said.

“Yes,” Dr. Jeen said.

Peter nodded and his stare intensified. He had seen fear and angst in men before, greater than the man’s before him, and although he was always on the side of trying to lessen that fear or angst, he now only wanted to cause it. “Good. Because I want to make sure when that ‘victim’ as you referred to him, wakes up, that he doesn’t look into my eyes and believe that he is trapped in that room, or that I’m the man that held him there and raped him repeatedly.”

He stepped back and just like that, Dr. Jeen had vanished down the hallway. Peter looked to his left and then to his right. The faces of nurses and paramedics walked past him, perhaps even through him. He leaned against the taupe wall, a gurney flew past him with a woman on there, maybe she was bleeding to death. He slid down towards the floor and tears upon other tears escaped. He brought his knees to his chest and hugged them viciously with his arm. He cried some more. He cried so much that his kneecaps were damp and his tan pants were undoubtedly ruined.

More nurses and doctors passed him leaving him in his grief, and they did not dare say a word to him.  

*********

“Hello, Neal,” Peter said. It had now been days since Neal had awoken in a hallucinatory panic. Now he sat upright with a blue cotton blanket covering his legs. An oversized hospital gown covered the rest of frame, daring to swallow his skeletal frame whole. He was calm, and didn’t jump when his name was called. Although Peter knew his doctor had him on a very low dose of valium, he knew in an instant that his head wasn’t clouded or fogged. And this made Peter somewhat nervous.   

“Hi,” he said, and then looked down at his hands, one of which was covered in an ace bandage. He was sure he didn’t get an accurate look, though, because his left eye was covered by a patch. The socket had been broken in by repeated hard punches.

What else could Peter possibly say to him at this point in time? There were no words to cover the horrors Neal had endured and Peter wouldn’t waste his time or energy with apologies or pleasantries because he knew of all people that Neal would not appreciate that from _him_. But the silence was almost excruciating for Peter because he had no earthly idea what was going through Neal’s mind. “I—”

“Did you get him, Peter?” he asked, still looking at his hands.

Peter mouth parted and stayed still because he was not expecting to hear those words or any at all. But he forced his tongue to click and clack and string sounds together—he had to. “Yes, Neal. I got him.”

But Neal did not answer with a ‘good’ or ‘okay’, and Peter didn’t expect him to, because he knew it wouldn’t alleviate his pain in any way, shape, or form.

********

“I need you to identify him,” Detective Grimm said. “Pictures, of course.”

Peter did not want Neal to endure anymore of this hell, but he knew there was a slim chance of that happening. He also had no idea how he would react. He expected tears, perhaps pleas, even yelling. But he certainly did not except him to submit, though that is exactly what he did.

“Okay,” Neal said, wincing as he sat up. That was another thing Peter had noticed: Neal showed his pain. He did not try and hide the fact that all of his ribs were broken, that it hurt when he breathed, that his arm was sprained. He let those who dared to look and engage with him see it all. He no longer stubbornly shined his pride, he no longer exuberated proudness. He was goddamn hurt, he was in goddamn pain. Come and see it or forever be damned.

He showed no emotion when the photograph was placed in front of him. His hands did not shake as he brought it closer to his good eye. He seemed if anything to study it. There were no wisecracks, no self-degrading jokes to ease the thick tension, no glances of his blue eyes up and towards the attractive female detective before him. There was simply no remnants of the old Neal Caffrey. “Yes this is him.”

“Just confirming, this is Keith Wells, the man who kidnapped and held you captive?”

He glanced again at the photo once more and looked up at Detective Grimm. “Yes.”

She took the photo from him, gave him a warm smile with her warm eyes and nodded. “Okay, thank you, Neal.”

He eased himself back down to a lying position and closed his eyes. No one waited for him to say ‘you’re welcome’.


	6. Chapter 6

“Neal, my dear” June said, placing her arms around him. Neal should have forced a smile on his face and sweetly embrace the wonderful woman in front of him, but his arms remained at his sides and he focused on counting silently to ten as to not let out a cry for her unintentionally rattling his sore body.

He felt the wetness from her tears soak his shirt and then he felt compelled to act. He placed his good arm on her back and let it rest there. “I’m okay,” he said softly.

June stepped back and ran her fingers gracefully under her eyes. She smiled and took his hand. “I know.”

Peter stood by the door, allowing the two to reunite without interference. It had been a long three and half weeks to say the least. The hospital had released Neal three days ago, and they stayed at El’s condo until the two made the drive back this morning. They ‘talked’ during the three hour trek, but it was minimal and limited to what radio station would be played. Peter caught him staring aimlessly out the window, but it wasn’t to look at the trees or the other passing cars. It was raw and simple freedom he was looking at, and Peter wouldn’t dare disrupt that.

The bruises on his face had lightened, but a yellow tint had settled instead and it was easily detectable as to where those nasty purples and blues had been. His face was still far too angular and his cheeks far too hollow, but he simply could not stomach solids yet and he was sustaining on the liquids feverishly provided to him every other hour.

The two men followed June up the stairs. No one said a word about the extremely slow pace they were going.

“I’ve left everything exactly as is,” she said, after entering Neal’s space and standing by the door.

Both she and Peter looked with caution as Neal stepped into his apartment. He stood next to the table, his arms by his side. He looked from his bedroom to the balcony slowly. And then his eyes landed on his easel, his cup of paint brushes, his tubes of acrylic paint.

“It’s good to have you home, Neal,” she said, smiling sadly as she closed the door behind her.

Peter didn’t say anything, he watched, almost in fear, as the younger man eased towards his painting corner. Neal stepped lightly towards it and finally he came to it and brushed his fingers along the tips of the brushes. Peter should have expected it, absolutely. Neal threw his arm across the edge of the easel, hard, knocking it and the cup of brushes to the ground.

It was a miracle the traumatized man did not vomit.

***********

“Yes?” Peter said, picking up the phone.

“Agent Burke, this is Detective Grimm. How are you?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. Detectives, well, the ones he had ever dealt with, were no bullshit people. They made sure they had the correct person on the other line and then got down to brass tax. And so when Detective Grimm asked him that almost meaningless question, he knew there was trouble. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

Now she was the one who didn’t answer. “How is Neal doing?” she finally asked.

 _Terrible_ , he wanted to say. He had gained ten pounds but was still terribly thin. He always declined his invitations to go out to eat. Peter caught him looking out the window a lot but he never wanted to venture out. He also never spoke unless spoken to. In the years he had known Neal, sometimes he wished he would keep his mouth shut sometimes. Now he wished for opposite. “He’s as good as can be expected,” he said.

“Yea…I figured as much.”

Peter waited five seconds for a follow-up question, but he got none. After ten seconds of silence, which actually was a very long time, he probed her. “What’s the matter, Detective?”

“Keith Wells is a free man. Walked out of the courthouse yesterday morning, no cuffs. Free.”

The moisture from Peter’s mouth had completely vanished and he found it hard to swallow. It became difficult to catch his breath and he wondered, among many, many other things, just how he was going to ever speak again.

“His charges were dismissed on a goddamn technicality,” she continued. “Apparently the arresting officer did not read him his Miranda rights. Can’t believe that sick son-of-a-bitch is out.”  

Peter was sure he heard her pause after this, but still, he could not bring himself to speak. It was as if his tongue had been cut from his mouth and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t form a single syllable.

“But, Agent Burke, that’s not the worst of it,” Detective Grimm said, taking a deep breath. “Now you did not hear this from me, got it? But I care about Neal, and all the other Neals out there who were ever subjected to that type of shit, so I followed Wells. Been keeping my eye on him for the past 24 hours without my superior’s knowledge, got it? And I’m afraid I saw the bastard buy a train ticket this morning and the train he got on, and I’m goddamn sure he did, is headed for New York City.”


	7. Chapter 7

Neal munched mindlessly on grapes. Cold spurts of juice filled his mouth as he popped their skin with his teeth. He then mindlessly extended his legs so they rested on his coffee table, and then he mindfully said an innocent pray. He had the luxury of extending his legs, of feeling relief, of feeling relaxed.

He was goddamned messed up is what he was.

And he knew it.

 _Knock. Knock._ Gerald, the most elder butler of June’s staff entered the apartment. In between his white gloved hands was a box of medium size. “Good afternoon, Mr. Caffrey. I have your mail. Shall I place it on the coffee table?”

Neal forced a smile. If he had any energy he would have stood, taken the box and various letters sitting on top of it, and told the older man to call him Neal. Instead he nodded. Gerald returned with his own nod and placed the items by Neal’s feet. He stood erect, gave another respectful nod and left.

Careful to his sore ribs, he reached for the box. It was taped quite impressively but he managed it open. Inside it were approximately ten clear CD cases, each with its own silver CD in it. His brow furrowed and he looked anywhere on any of these items for a label, but there were none. He closed the box and lifted it, looking for a return address, but again, there was none.

He was tired and wanted to take a nap, but curiosity, especially his, was pulling him to move. He opened the laptop next to him and inserted a disc.

The video was in black and white and at first it appeared to be of no significance. But then the images formed more clearly and Neal knew exactly what it depicted. It was _that_ room. It was _that_ bed. It was _his_ body on top of it, and it was Keith Wells body on top of his.

_“Doesn’t this feel so nice, Neal?”_

_“Stop,” he groaned._

Then Neal heard his own screams, his own pleas for mercy, his own private hell. He felt his stomach freeze and then the hot fire inside of it exploded to every part of his body, but still, he could not move. He could not pry his eyes away from the screen and he sure as hell could not command his fingers to press the space bar and pause the despicable video.

The tears fell as he heard and watched his rape continue. His eyes darted to the box next to his computer. There were more. But how? And why? And who the hell sent these? Keith Wells was the only unfortunate answer, and that meant only one thing: he was out of jail and free to use the U.S. postal service at his pleasure.

His screams in the video seemed distant to his ears, but he heard them. It was one thing to experience the brutality; drugged but still conscious, able to feel the pain but not do a damn thing about it, and it was quite another to see it. He was forced back to that time and place, was able to feel the penetration again, each horrific thrust, each disgusting finger over his badly beaten and starved body.

He didn’t make it to the bathroom. Hell, he didn’t even make it to the kitchen sink. His trash can was the only receptacle that could take his grapes. They came up mushy and gross with undigested skin of the fruit dragging on his throat. His ribs burned and his entire body shook but he couldn’t stop, and when nothing more came from his mouth his eyes burned with blindness from the unstoppable tears pooling in his retinas. But he could still hear his screams and he could still hear Keith Wells ravaging his soul and telling him he loved him.

And then he felt strong yet gentle hands on his back. And then he heard a familiar voice, Peter’s voice, telling him over and over that it was alright. It was only when Neal’s cries stopped and the sounds from the video was all that could be heard when Peter stopped saying that particular phrase.

*********

Neal eye’s opened slowly. The dim light from his lamp allowed him to see he was in his bed. For a moment he felt his heart beat rapidly as he could not feel the freedom of moving his arms or legs, but then he realized he was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. He extracted what energy he had and felt he could move his arm and legs if he really wanted to, but the warmth he was harboring in all of his layers made him not want to.

“Hello?” he whispered, although he had intended to say it louder.

“It’s Peter, Neal. I’m right here.”

He heard the footsteps approach him and he heard the creak by the foot of his bed. Neal didn’t bother to turn onto his back, or even away from the wall he faced. He let the older man kneel in front of him. Peter’s face was not scarred in fear or panic, but he supposed that was involuntary, as years of training in the FBI had proscribed that be his neutral ‘game’ face.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said.

“For what?”

And when Neal heard nothing but silence fill the air, he knew he had to say it. “That you had to see it.”

Peter looked at the ground, the old wood beneath him meeting his stare, but bless his courageous heart and kind soul he picked his head back up high and met those blue eyes with warmness. “I’m sorry you had to live it.”

And that aimless stare filled his eyes before drifting away back to the wall. “Me too.”

**********

“I want the house surrounded. I want a patrol car at each corner, I want men on their feet on the sidewalks, and I want an agent inside the house at each entrance.”

“Peter, I know you care for Neal, but that is a lot of man power and a lot of resources that we just can’t expend,” Bruce said, throwing his pen to his desk.

Peter sat down and let out a big sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head in defeat. He looked at his watch. He left Diana at Neal's an hour ago. She told him to take his time with whatever it was he had to do, but he didn't like being away. Not right now. “I know, but—”

“He’s not even an agent.”

Peter’s head went up. His eye twitched and he was sure that hell was about to freeze over. “You’ve never had a problem treating him like one before.”

“What are you talking about?”

He stood, his rocket was ready for take-off. “I’m just talking about how the Bureau has used Neal for their personal gain for the past five years. How many ops have we sent him under? Put him in the line of fire, in the line of bullets, to make deals with dangerous people? And how many of those ops have resulted in putting those dangerous people away? Hundreds. Christ, we never even gave him a gun, let alone a bullet-proof vest. Our success rate has gone up 8% since he joined us, but we certainly couldn’t attribute that to him, could we? Because he’s not an _agent_ , right?”

“Okay, I get it—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t get shit,” Peter continued. “He’s been in more fucked up situations that any of these _agents_  in here combined, and he _never_ complained. And you think he wanted to? He’s a conman, a lover of art and stocks and bonds. He has no field training, no knowledge as to how to dodge a bullet. But he did it because he didn’t want to go back to jail. Our deal with him guaranteed that, and yet, under _our_ watch, he was kidnapped and held captive for six months. Unspeakable things were done to him, Bruce, things you and I don’t want to imagine. And how do we say ‘thank you’? By slapping on another anklet? So our success rates can go up another 8%? Let him stay out in the open so that sick bastard Wells can get him again?”

“Peter, please—”

“Shut up! I know you’re on my side and I know that you are my superior and I damn well know I could get canned for speaking to you like this, but _this_ is _not_ justice. Far from it. If you can’t wrap your head around that then I don’t know what you are doing here. Neal Caffrey is an agent as far as I’m concerned, and he deserves to be treated as one.”

Bruce took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He picked the lint off his knee and flicked it to the ground. He met Peter’s eyes with graveness and for a long time he did not speak. Finally, when the tension had reached its limit, and Peter was sure this was the part where he be demanded to place his badge and gun on the table, his superior spoke. “Tell me exactly which street corners you want watched.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Neal, this is Agent Clarks,” Peter said. The almost retired FBI agent extended his hand. He was in his fifties, about six-foot-two, and had a paunchy stomach he was rather unhappy about. Though, that’s typically what happened to old timers like himself after they were stuck behind a desk.

Neal forced his hand out and shook the hand before him twice, then he quickly retreated it to his side. It was particularly cold that Thursday morning, but he remember it took some time to heat up June’s mansion given its size.

“He’s going to be sitting outside your room for a few days. Just as a precaution.”

Neal briefly studied Agent Clarks and the gun at his side in its pretty black leather holster. The senior FBI agent did a quick visual sweep of the apartment; the windows, the balcony. Peter reviewed the interaction between the two. It wasn’t warmful, but then again, Neal wasn’t particularly open to meeting new people nowadays.

“I’ll be outside,” Agent Clarks said as headed for the door.

Neal put his hand up slightly, indicating goodbye. He sat down at his table and reached for his cup of tea which was of course cold by now. He sipped on it nonetheless.

“I’ve got three cars outside. They’ll always be there,” Peter said taking the seat across from him.

Neal grabbed a merguine flavored cookie, courtesy of a package Elizabeth had sent over the day before, but he didn’t put it in his mouth. He held it in his hand and finally broke it against the wooden surface.  “What are the odds that he’ll get me, Peter?”

“Zero,” he said quite quickly.

Neal nodded and licked his chapped lips. He did not seem comforted by that statement, not in the least. He had seen horrors of the world, treacherous acts that could never be defined by words, and unholy synergy behest by a man that even the prison system would not keep.

Peter reached across the table and swept away the cookie crumbs. Neal’s head tilted up, just enough for the two men’s eyes to meet. “I promise, Neal.”

***********

“Please eat something,” Peter said as he watched Neal lean against the fiberglass of his window.

Neal looked below, down at the street, at the three beige sedans landmarked in their corners. “ ‘M not hungry,” he said softly.

Peter sighed and reached for another report from his stack of twenty others. Work still came to him, courier messengers for the time being. He spent the last two days, though not nights, at Neal’s apartment. He came by at 10 a.m., with a cup of coffee for Agent Clarks, his reports in tow, and settled on the brown couch. It was close to 3 now and Neal had spent most of the time in bed. Not once had he seen the younger man eat.

“C’mon, it’ll do you some good. Lets make those cooks downstairs earn their money today.”

“We were always going to get to this place, you know that?”

Peter frowned, unsure what he meant by that. He put his report down on the coffee table. “What?”

He turned and faced his friend. “When . . . he was arrested. I’m sure he underwent a competency hearing, right? To determine if he could stand trial.”

Peter swallowed hard. He didn’t want to bring up more than he had to about Wells. But here Neal was asking specifics that he damn well knew the answers to. “Yes.”

“Too see if could tell the difference between right and wrong. They did one on me too, you know that? Because I also have a hard time with that.”

 “That’s . . . it’s not the same thing, Neal. You know that. What he did—”

“Was wrong, I know. I did wrong things too, and look, they let me roam free after just four years.”

“But you never hurt anyone, really. You pulled a con here and there, but it doesn’t equal to what he did, not even a tenth. You understand that, right?” Peter asked.

Neal placed his hand over his eyes and shook his head. “Look what he did to me.”

“Neal—”

“If he hadn’t been let out on that **bullshit** technicality, he would have still won. If he was labeled incompetent, he woulda spent what, 10, 15 years in an institution, going to therapy, playing checkers? If he was competent and went to trial, he woulda gotten 10, 15 years. Gotten a bed, food, time in the yard.”

“No, that would not have happened—”

“And then he would have been out. And you and I would be sitting right here, with six armed agents around us because crazy never really goes away.”

Peter was at a loss for words. He could argue with him, but what would that do? It wouldn’t ease his mind, release his tension, alleviate his pain. So he said nothing.

“I can’t even go outside,” Neal continued. “I’m afraid. I know you will say I don’t have to be, but I am.” He turned away from Peter and slowly retreated back towards the window. He leaned his forehead against the cool surface and laid his eyes to rest once again on the three beige sedans. “I’m still his prisoner, Peter.”

 

**********

It was 6:45 when his alarm clock went off.  _Beep. Beep._  Beep. Agent Clarks hit the snooze button, though, he did not fall back asleep. He was always an early riser, well, he used to be. Operation Grant put a stop to that. It had been five years since that op went south. He lost men. Three good men to be exact. Arms dealers just weren't natural negotiators it turned out. He himself got hit. Goddamn metal pins were keeping his left leg in place, his hip too. Then the bureau did their investigation. Their big time investigation. He should have gotten a shiny metal for his services. His five other men were still alive, off doing cool ops in exotic parts of the world, not him though. No, no, no. He was put behind a desk; spent the last two years in godforsaken inventory and now he was given the task of being a glorified babysitter. Life was peachy. 

He showered and dressed, a red tie he felt like today. Just because he sat outside a room didn't mean he couldn't respect himself. He turned on his television and turned it up loud. His wife Sophia wouldn't be bothered, that was for damn sure. She left him six months ago, said she couldn't take his moping anymore. But he just thinks she couldn't stand spending so much time with him. When he was out in the field, he would be gone for two, three months at a time. But then he got injured it and was typical 9 to 5 days. He doesn't blame her though, he was a miserable son-of-a-bitch. He wouldn't want to spend so much time with himself either.

Looked like he got the raw end of that deal. 

"Neal. Goddamn. Caffrey," he muttered, grabbing his keys of his dresser. 

He grabbed his mail on the way out. He was too tired and drunk for that matter to read it the night before. He didn't know what was in the pile. Bills, junk, a letter from his divorce attorney. But what Agent Clarks did not know was that there was a letter addressed to him in this pile, though it would not have a return address on it, and it would entail a manifesto of sorts. How hard Agents Clarks had worked all those years to get absolutely nothing in return, how it was not fair and certainly not right, and how something could be done about it.

It would be good reading material that morning. No doubt. 


	9. Chapter 9

Neal turned off the faucet of the bathroom sink. He grabbed the soft green towel and patted his face. He then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. “Damn,” he whispered, running his fingers through his hair. It was the first time in a long time he looked—really, really looked. His face was squeamishly angular; the skin underneath his eyes were stretched with shadows of gray from restless sleeps; the elbows sticking out from his t-shirt looked as though they would gravely injure anyone who accidentally made contact with them.

He dared himself and lifted his shirt. His lids closed in disbelief, as though he would open them again and see something different that what he just had. There were scars. Jagged, long, red. Down his stomach, down his hips. Each rib was visibly detectable. He lowered the shirt and turned his focus to the marble floor. No wonder everyone threw sad smiles his way. Letting him know it wasn’t his fault; that everything was okay when it most certainly was not.

“Peter?” he called out after hearing the door open. He brushed his fingers through his hair, knowing full well it wouldn’t improve his appearance. He reached for the doorknob, but that’s when he realized thirty seconds had passed and he still had not gotten a response. Peter was always mindful to announce his presence, most of the time without asking.

“A-agent Clarks?” he said, his hand still on the knob.

Thirty more seconds passed and still not a word. The hot panic always in his stomach was ready to resurface now, and it did. Whether overreacting or not, he could not help but allow the bathroom walls to grow closer to him. It was caving in on him, no doubt, and whether he screamed or not, he knew they would swallow him whole.

 _Everything’s fine. Relax. No one is out there, probably._ Neal nodded to himself. But then the knob in which his hand still rested on started to turn. And when it opened, each and every one of his nightmares became a vibrant reality.

“Hello, Neal,” Keith said.

Neal’s lips parted and no he was not breathing. _This isn’t real. This is **not**_ _real._ But those callous hands roamed onto his forearm, up and down, up and down and the tears formed upon instant contact.

It most certainly was real.

“You’re not being a very gracious host, Neal. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” Keith smiled, and boy he was ever so calm.

“I . . . I . . .you . . .”

“It’s so adorable when you stutter,” he said, guiding him out of the bathroom and into the kitchen area.

Neal couldn’t feel his legs, he was sure of that. All sensations in every part of his body was gone. Peter promised him, looked him in the eye and promised him this wouldn’t happen. “GET OUT!” he screamed as loudly as he could.

And before he could gather his voice for a second scream that would have surely woken up all of Upper West Manhattan, Keith grabbed his neck and pushed him onto the surface of his table. The bowl of fruit was knocked over and the sound of glass shattering filled his eardrum. “AGENT CLARKS, HELP ME!” he screamed as he used both of his hands to try and push the monster off of him.

“Listen, and listen real good,” Keith hissed, placing his hand tighter around Neal’s neck and the other firmly on top of his chest, “Agent Clark is not going to help you. Agent Clark doesn’t like you. In all honesty, Agent Clark wants to see you die.”

Neal squirmed under the weight. His captor’s angry purple face was staring down at him, watching his tears leak from his eyes and onto the wooden surface beneath him. Keith then grabbed his wrist, hard. “Is this the one I hurt?” he asked in a tone more devious than ever. That’s when Neal stopped squirming. He had only removed the ace bandage three days earlier and it was still sore. “How ‘bout a nice clean break this time?”

Neal shook his head, desperate for that not to occur, but it did. The CRACK his bone made when it snapped was crisp and loud. The air from inside his chest vanished even further and he was sure he would die right then and there from asphyxiation. But sobs poked through and he knew they were ugly and long. Big hands grabbed his shirt and he was lifted and then thrown viciously to the ground. A foot wedged in between his ribs and hipbone and almighty heavy weight was pressed down. He felt warmness dribble from his mouth, though he has no recollection of being hit there.

Another kick was delivered to his back and then those callous hands rummaged through his dark locks. They were grabbed by the fistful and the right side of his face made contact with the ground as it was slammed back down.

More blood tricked down his face, from where, he did not know. But it slid into his eyes and more into his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Neal sobbed as he tried pathetically to crawl to the door. “I’m sorry for whatever I did to you to make you want to hurt me like this.”

Keith placed his foot yet again in between Neal’s hipbone and rib cage and new burst of pain waved through him. The foot guided him to roll onto his back, and once again, bruised and bloodied, Neal was face to face with his captor.

Keith bent down and ran his fingers through Neal’s hair. He smiled. “It’s my way or no way, remember that, Neal.”

Neal breathed in deep, trying not to exasperate the desperation, but it was of no use.

Keith Wells had him.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Peter hit redial. It was almost 7 p.m. “Neal, this is my third call. You’re probably sleeping but I was thinking of getting Vietnamese. I know you think I don’t like it but I do. Anyways, I’ll get you some soup. You have about, oh, I don’t know, five minutes to call me back to tell me you’d rather have Chinese. See you soon.”

He was about to put the phone in his pocket, but he stopped himself and took it out again. He scrolled through his contacts and found the newest addition to his list. “Hmm,” he said aloud as it went to voicemail.  _That’s kinda weird._ “Agent Clarks, Peter Burke. Picking up some food and was wondering if you wanted anything. I’m getting Vietnamese. Call me.”

It took about 20 minutes to pick up the food and find a parking spot near June’s. He waved to the agent in the beige sedan as he passed it. “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked politely. He smiled wide, compensating for the fact that he did not know the gentleman’s name.

“Alright, Agent Burke.”

“Anything goin’ on?”

“Nope. Been quiet as usual.”

Peter nodded and the exchange was over. He headed into the house and let himself in courtesy of a key June had made specifically for him. The maids and butlers were gone for the evening, they usually left around 6. He placed the bag of hot food on the counter and poked through a few cabinets for some dishware. With a little coaxing, he was sure he could get Neal to at least venture out of his room that evening.

He took the containers out and placed them on the table. Taking the empty brown bag, he folded it and opened the white lacquered trash can. This was not his house, so throwing it in carelessly was not an option. He would place it on top of the various papers in there and push down. Now, Peter Burke was no snoop. Not in the traditional sense anyways. It was of course his nature to ponder, to extract, to put various meaningless little details together and string them into something of importance. And that is exactly what he did.

It was a standard white envelope. Meaningless. It had Agent Clarks’ name and address on it. Again somewhat meaningless. He placed the folded brown take-out bag on the counter and reached into the receptacle. He picked up the envelope and peered inside. It was empty. He looked at the front of it again.

Something was missing.

The return address.

“Oh shit,” he whispered before reaching for his gun and running towards the staircase.

**********

Hands were on him. Callous, dry, dirty hands. They roamed. Always roaming. Underneath his shirt, sliding down his pants.

He didn’t cry. He was done doing that. He didn’t tell him to stop either. It never did anything anyways.

He felt his clothes were still on him, but other than that he doesn’t remember. He blocked it out. He had to.

On the other hand . . . he could be damaged some more, because really, there was nothing left to hurt of him.

Then he heard the BOOM from the other side of the door.

_Maybe it’s Peter, he thought._

_It’s probably not._


	11. Chapter 11

It was dark, darker than it should have been. He could have turned on the lights, but then the element of surprise would be gone, or worse, that’s when a bullet could hit him. But he knew the corners, the turns, and which doors led to where. Presumption of details is what was going to save his life and Neal’s as well.

It was 13 steps up. Lucky, unlucky—depends on how one looked at it. Peter Burke didn’t depend on luck. He relied on his instincts. So he was up 13 stairs, carefully avoided the creak on the seventh one, and turned slightly left.

He heard no signs of struggle or muffled bursts of pain, but he still did not give a damn. Damn him! He will be wrong. Neal will see his gun raised, hear his voice shout, and then he’ll take a valium—yes on an empty stomach. Maybe they’ll have a chuckle about it in fifteen or twenty years. Probably not.

Surely not. For Agent Clarks, lone and armed, stood next to his wooden chair. His arms were raised and his .45 magnum was held tightly in his grip. Peter said not a word as he neared the man he trusted to guard Neal’s life. The two had locked eyes long ago, but still, there was the silence. Both men had their guns raised at each other’s chest.

It was a real Western cowboy moment.

“Step away from the door,” Peter said, setting his feet deeply into place.

Agent Clarks shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

That’s when the sound of glass shattering from behind the door exploded and Peter’s suspicions had been replaced by fear. “AGENT CLARKS, HELP ME!” Neal shouted, desperation and tears laced his voice.

Peter wanted nothing more than to barge into that room a goddamn five feet away and shoot Keith Wells until he was dead. His heart tugged at his feet. _Save him! It’s **your**_ _job to make sure this never happens again. You **promised** him. _  

“Goddamit, Clarks. Move!” Peter shouted, readjusting the grip on his gun that was slipping through his sweat ridden fingers.

“You take one more step and I put a bullet in between your eyes,” he responded calmly.

The undeniable sound of a bone being snapped and anguished cries escaping from Neal was heard next, followed by the crisp _THUD_ of a body hitting the floor. _Hang on Neal. Please, just hang on._

“Why . . . why are you doing this?” Peter asked, desperate for a conceivable answer.

A healthy layer of sweat now covered Clarks’ forehead, but still, his angry stare or hold on his gun did not lessen. “25 years on the job. Not once did I get a ‘thank you’—”

“That’s not why we do it,” Peter said.

“Shut up! 25 years. Go here, save this guy, go there, catch the bad guys. I got some pins in my leg and hip. Did you know that? Did you ever even ask? Never did I get a ‘thank you’ or ‘good work’ or a pat on the back. Hell, never even got a raise.”

“Is this about money? I can get you money. Please, just let me in there.”

“No!” he shouted raising his gun up higher. “I’ve been a lapdog for years, and then I was demoted even further. Babysitter for a goddamn criminal. Is that why we _do this_ , Burke? To watch the likes of Caffrey?”

“He’s a human being, like me and you.”

“No, no, no. He’s not. He’s a criminal. And you’re so goddamned warped by him that you can’t even see it. He doesn’t deserve our help, our protection. He deserves to die so that we can focus our attention to things that really matter. _This_ right here, this is about justice!”

 _BOOM!_ The bullet flew past Peter’s skull and into Clarks’ shoulder. His gun fell to the ground, right before he did.

“Like hell it is,” Diana said. Smoke was escaping from the barrel of her gun. “You okay, boss?” she asked, taking the last step up.

Peter didn’t answer. He kept his gun on Clarks while Diana reached for her handcuffs. She dug her knee into the disgraced agent’s back and promptly wrapped the metal around his wrists, showing no mercy at all.

“Go get that sick bastard. I’ll take care of this one,” she said.

**********

Peter entered Neal’s apartment with his arms extended and a gun inside his fingers. He pointed at the emptiness in front of him, not knowing what to expect. He saw the broken shards of glass by the table, then the trail of blood near it. His eyes went left to right, then left to right again. He turned his body just as another bullet flew past his skull, missing him by an inch.

He turned again, towards the bedroom, and was face to face with Keith Wells. His right arm was raised, the gun still aimed at him. His left arm was wrapped tight around Neal’s midsection.

“Let go of him,” Peter said, though he knew he wouldn’t. Neal was injured, obviously. His body was almost limp, as though he had given up a long time ago, and Keith’s large arm and shadowing build was the only thing keeping him upright. Blood trickled down the side of his face, and dried bits of it rested at his nostrils and around the edges of his lips. His right arm was bent in a funny looking way, too.

But this was not what made Peter nervous or angry or scared. It was the wetness on his cheeks and underneath his eyes. Peter was sure he had never seen anyone look so frightened and accepting of a situation at the same time as he did now. His blue eyes met Peter’s, and in that second, Peter saw terror and sadness all rolled into one. He believes he saw betrayal as well.

“Please . .  . let him go,” Peter said, though this time he asked and there was undoubtedly a quiver in his voice.

“Oh, well since you asked so nicely,” Keith said. He let go of Neal’s midsection and miraculously he did not plummet to the ground. He took a step towards Peter, and just as quickly as he was let go, Keith’s brawny arm was placed around him again, snatching him back into his hold tighter than before.

“Haha. Just kidding,” Keith said smiling.

Two tears, one from each of Neal’s eyes, fell like clockwork. It was just another game.

Peter was ultimately afraid now. Never had he seen such sickness exuberate from a man. And then his stomach flipped because in that moment he understood exactly how Neal must have felt when he was held captive. He didn’t know though. Whatever this was, it was nothing compared to what really happened behind those locked doors.

He kept his gun raised at Keith, wondering where the hell his back-up was. He had to stall, that was it. Stall until more help arrives. He tried not to look at Keith’s hand wrapped around Neal’s midsection, his fingers running up and down in small motions. Keith had a look of hidden pleasure plastered in his eyes. And with the ultimate psychotic flair in his features, he lowered his lips to the crook of Neal’s exposed neck and kissed softly, his eyes on Peter the entire time.

Neal shuddered and more tears fell. He felt the hardness in between Keith’s legs rub against him. He wanted bullets to fly and possibly hit him as well.

_BOOM! BOOM!_

Looked like Neal almost got what he wanted.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter took the first shot. He just couldn’t watch it. Keith’s lips against Neal’s skin, the absolutely horrified look in his blue eyes. 

The bullet hit Keith in his right forearm. The silver metal dropped to the ground and that’s when Peter lunged. He didn’t want to, but he grabbed Neal’s arm rather harshly and pulled him to the floor. Peter fell on top of Keith and he didn’t bother to use his fist. He used his gun, taking the butt of it and jamming into the bigger man’s nose. Keith raised his fist and swung, but Peter moved to the left and it missed him.

Peter reached for his neck, but Keith was bigger and stronger and reached for his gun. The two men both held the silver trinket and wrestled to gain full control of it. The sweat on Peter’s fingers grew and finally they slipped. Keith grabbed his shoulder and pushed him to the ground. His body made a _THUD_ and he rolled onto his back. He saw Keith stand up with _his_ gun in his hand and make his way over to Neal’s fallen body.  Keith took his foot and placed it on his back, pressing down on his side until he rolled over and looked him in the eye.

Peter scrambled to his feet. Just as it looked like Keith was about to pull the trigger, which would have no doubt hit Neal and end his life, the door flew open and Jones and three armed agents raced in.

Peter’s eyes darted again, left to right, left to right. He saw Jones, along with the other men, raise their guns. Peter lunged again, but this time past Keith and past the bullets already flying, and landed on top of Neal’s body. He placed his arms over his chest and head.

_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

Neal’s body jolted, three times. One for each bullet fired. They were stiff lurches too.

“He’s down!” Jones screamed.

Peter picked his head up and turned. Keith Wells was on his back. The gun was no longer in his hand. Blood seeped out from the new holes in him. He did not move.

He lifted his body and looked down. Neal’s eyes were squeezed shut, though that didn’t stop the momentous tears shedding from them. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” Peter whispered.

Neal sniffled the runniness back into his nose and Peter felt his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

“You alright, Peter?” Jones asked.

He turned to one of his best agents and nodded. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Get me paramedics, now.”

Jones’ eyes diverted toward Neal and nodded. “You got it.”

“And get me a blanket.” Someone handed him a blanket and he got on his knees. “C’mon, Neal, open your eyes.” Neal obeyed. The moisture from his tears separated his eyelashes into clumps and Peter could see that he was still so goddamned terrified. But why shouldn’t he be? He had feared for his life for more than half a year, and now just barely escaped that fear.

Peter helped him sit up and he placed the blanket around his shoulders. Neal’s eyes darted towards Keith’s still body a mere five feet away from his toes. “He’s dead,” Peter said.

Neal tried to contain his shakes and sniffled again. Then he nodded and looked away.


	13. Chapter 13

“Was he raped?” Peter asked.

Dr. Tullie looked down at his clipboard. He had been a doctor for almost thirty years now, and he had seen it all: broken bones, bullet wounds, fractured skulls. He had also seen comas, death, and rape. He had been in these dire type situations more times than he would like to remember and the outcome was always sad.

He tried his hardest to be delicate, though, medical school didn’t really teach their students the art of delivering news to their patient’s loved ones, at least they hadn't when he attended so long ago. Its neither a trick nor a trade. You are either good at it or not. He was fair but firm in his deliverance, and he supposed his deep southern roots had a hand in that.  

“Mr. Burke—”

“ _Agent_ Burke. Now answer me.”

The doctor finally looked up. “I don’t know.”

Peter lifted his shoulders up and shook his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Agent Burke, that I have not fully examined him.”

“But—”

“But nothing, sir. You want ‘evidence’? I’ve been informed the perpetrator is dead. No sense in gathering evidence to put away a dead man, is there? I’m not gonna shake that boy up more than he already is, you hear me?”

Peter shut his mouth and was relented to the fact that he was no longer in the driver seat. His eyes darted down and then they came up sadder than before. “What if. . . what if he’s in pain?”

“I have no doubt he is in pain. Tremendous pain, I’d say. But me goin’ around pokin’ him where he don’t want me to ain’t gonna relieve him. So I ain’t doin’ it. You don’t like my assessment, then get yourself a different doctor. Bear in mind, I ain’t doin’ this to be a hard-ass. I’m doin’ it cause it’s in the best interest of my patient.”

"Can I see him at least?"

"That's up to him, though, I doubt he wants visitors."

Peter gave Dr. Tullie a look, as if 'you don't know what you're talking about,' and stepped towards the exam room. But his feet stayed firmly planted in front of it. He saw through the clear glass Neal lying down. The bruises were visible now, red and raw, shades of purple trying to escape and rest on his skin. His broken arm, wrapped in a pretty new white cast, rested on his stomach. And there was that look on his face, that sorry look that would make a newborn baby cry. 

"Let him be," Dr. Tullie said. 

*********

Dr. Tullie had never seen a man, or woman for that matter, so broken before. He more or less forgot about his patients after examining and treating them; that was part of the job. Move on to the next one. Though, there were those rare exceptions, and unfortunately, Neal would be one of them. Despite the dried blood in various spots on his face and the bruises on his neck, Dr. Tullie could see layers upon layers of pain. It was deep, and went further than any physical ailment he presently saw. Fear was embedded in his bones and it stiffened his every movement, but Dr. Tullie could see he wanted more than anything to fight through it but just could not. He accepted it and relented back to it, as if that was all he knew and had sickly become a comfort for him.

With the gentle urging of a female nurse, Neal was guided into a hospital gown. Dr. Tullie took note of the scars that were trying their hardest to become old and faded on his back, as well as the accentuation of bones trying to peak through the thin layer of skin over it. _This boy has been through it,_ he thought to himself. He examined Neal as best he could under the circumstances. He cleaned up the gash on his forehead, put in a few stitches, and cast his arm. An x-ray would not be needed for Dr. Tullie had seen enough broken bones in his time. The awkward way in which the arm fell told him it was a hard break.

It was particularly hard for Dr. Tullie to do all these things, not because Neal wouldn’t allow him to, but because the doctor felt him stiffen each and every time he touched him. It was unintentional and Dr. Tullie, a true southern gentleman at heart, wasn’t offended.

“Do your ribs hurt?” he asked.

Neal’s eyes turned to the doctor’s. His mouth opened, but he stopped himself before speaking.

“It’s okay. I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. But if they hurt, I can assess how much painkiller to give you.”

“They hurt,” he whispered.

Dr. Tullie nodded. “Are there any other injuries, son? One’s I can’t see that you would be privy to let me look at?”

And right before his eyes it seemed as if Neal was trying to doing everything he could to shrink away into nothingness. He crossed his uninjured arm over his stomach, perhaps as a shield, and looked down at his dangling feet.

“That’s alright. You just go on and relax. I’ll come back later, alright?” Dr. Tullie tried his damndest to smile at the wretched soul before him, but his sadness seemed to leech onto the air and evaporate in anyone’s presence and he simply could not.


	14. Chapter 14

It wasn’t supposed to be this way for him. It just wasn’t.

Of course he knew he wouldn’t get the picket fence, the dog waiting for him by the fireplace, or the wife eating dinner with him every night at 6 p.m. on the dot after a long day at work.

But he damn well knew he shouldn’t have been sitting here, in this cold unfriendly taupe-ish colored hospital room. He shouldn’t have been kidnapped, subjected to brutal beatings and even more brutal rapes, and he shouldn’t have been left in that house with that disgraced agent who would let—no calculate—just when his next round of imaginable horror would take place with _that_ man. 

But he was there and it did all happen, and that’s when Neal realized it was better to understand the present rather than to wish for things from the past.

Still, sometimes he thinks he would be nice to anyways.

**********

It was early that Thursday morning when Peter went back. He found a parking spot on the second level of the garage with ease, but he found it was hard to eject himself from the vehicle. He left yesterday, per Dr. Tullie’s advice, without seeing Neal.

Peter wrestled with it the entire drive home. Dr. Tullie told him the meeting would be obsolete, that Neal was in shock and the painkillers he gave him would only emit slurred answers. But still, Peter wanted Neal to look into his eyes and see that he was there and that he was safe. However, Peter, now on his way to see his traumatized friend, was sure he would never see that look in those crystal blues, for he had once foolishly promised safety and sadly it was not delivered.

He placed his FBI decal on the dashboard, using the limited perk to avoid a ticket in the reserved parking space, and headed for the double sliding doors. It was quiet, and though Peter didn’t spend an inordinate amount of times in hospitals, he knew it was a rarity.

“You’re here early, as I expected you would be,” Dr. Tullie said from behind the partition. His glasses were on the bridge of his nose, and it was buried in a chart he held in his hand.

Peter took this as a peace offering. The two hadn’t even known each other a full twenty-four hours, but they both knew this was as light their conversations would get. Peter glanced at his clock, only seven hours had passed since he stood in this hallway. “I’m not a big sleeper,” he said dryly.

Dr. Tullie nodded and took a sip from his styrofoam cup. He placed it on the counter and finally looked up at the federal man. “You and Neal have much in common then.”

Worry etched into Peter’s face and he couldn’t hide it even if he wanted to.

“He’s still a bit shaken up. Rest assure, Agent Burke, he’ll sleep when he’s tired. I’m assumin’ you are here to see him.”

Peter nodded.

Dr. Tullie turned his head slightly towards the left. “Go on then.”

But his feet stayed planted. He wanted to know more, everything even, and also nothing at the same time. Was a further examination performed? Was Neal given another sleeping aid, did he have another horrible nightmare?

“Or you can wait here,” Dr. Tullie said. “I’ll be realeasin’ him later today. He’s already asked for a change of clothes. Now I know what you’re thinkin’, that he needs to stay here for a little while longer, but I’ve done no further examination on him, per his request. I’ve stitched him and casted him the best I can. His concussion is gone and I’ve given him a prescription for painkillers and a light sleeping aid. Ain’t nothin’ more I can do for that poor boy.”

“But—”

Dr. Tullie rose to his feet and readjusted the stethoscope around his neck. “I do recommend he sees a nutritionist, get his weight back up, and he should see a therapist. A good one. I have a list of names that I highly suggest.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it in Peter’s hand. “Those doctors on there are the best at what they do. Get him to see anyone of ‘em. Regularly. He _might_ be alright if he does. You hear me?”

Peter looked at his hand and the folded paper in it. Dr. Tullie didn’t have to do that. He could have just treated Neal medically and moved on. He also didn’t have to put Peter in his place last night, though he was glad he did because it was for the best of Neal.  Peter looked up at the older doctor. He had neither a frown nor a smile on his face. He didn’t look exhausted either. These were the hours he kept, these were the patients he dealt with, and all that he did to help them was for the good of them. “Thank y—”

“Take care, Agent Burke.” And with that, Dr. Tullie walked away. He did after all have other patients to see.

********

“Do you want help?” Peter asked, looking at the shirt still folded neatly in his hand.”Neal?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’m going to help you,” he said, taking the shirt and unfolding it. He reached over Neal’s shoulders and untied the hospital gown. It fell slowly off him and revealed the mural of purple and black. Peter gently guided his casted arm into the sleeve. He buttoned the shirt slowly, making sure not to accidentally brush his fingers against the tape that held every one of his cracked ribs in place.

But Neal wouldn’t look at him. He kept his chin to his chest and his head was turned slightly, as if he did not even want to breathe in his cologne.

Peter sighed, feeling the tension. His hand went for Neal’s shoulder but it never made actual contact. He slapped it away, quite harshly. And with that he turned his head and lifted his chin. Exhausted blue eyes met brown ones.

No one blinked.

One was not breathing.

“You promised.”

Now Peter was the one who turned his head and lowered his chin to his chest.

“Look at me!”

And so Peter did. That’s when the fire in Neal’s eyes ignited. He stood, stepped forward, and then he stepped again. “You lied to me ” he wheezed. It wasn’t a question nor an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

Neal continued his steps forward and Peter continued his steps back. It was a dance of sorts. He then started the shoving. A shove here, another one there. All the way until Peter was backed up against the wall. Peter let Neal hit him. Slap after slap after slap, as if this would bring his shielding hands down. “You goddamn lied to me!”

Peter grabbed his wrists. The two were face to face, inches apart. “I’m so—”

“Don’t," Neal said, shaking his head feverishly. "Don’t you goddamn say it.”  Tears threatened to spill from his blue eyes. His lips trembled as though he wanted to scream and shout some more, but he didn’t. It wasn’t Peter’s fault. He knew that. And Peter knew it too. With his wrists still held, Neal slowly crumpled to the floor and Peter guided him there, careful not to let him land too hard.

So there on the cold linoleum floor of the hospital, Neal cried. Peter released his hold and the battered man brought them over his battered lips, desperate to conceal the sounds escaping from them.

And Peter stood over him, helpless, letting his fat tears leak onto the fake leather of his shoes.


End file.
